The Beast Who Loved Me: A Fairytale Retelling (Regency Fairy Twists Book 2) Read online

  “Why should I care?” He did not look at the housekeeper. Her soft grey eyes knew far too much.

  “You know why,” she said softly. “I just watched her leave from the drawing room and she was hobbling. I think she may be injured. If we send her away then…”

  “Yes, I understand,” he snapped.

  He understood far too well. His judgement had been wrong once upon a time and Lilly had paid dearly for it. He could not send another woman to her death.

  Drawing in a long breath, he released the doorknob and headed back to the front door. He squinted while he walked. After all these years, he had still not grown used to his lack of depth perception. Timms would tell him he was lucky to have his sight but what use was one good eye?

  He wrenched open the door to find the girl had hobbled as far as the gate. The rain continued and did not look ready to ease up anytime soon. If he asked her in, who knew how long he would have to play host.

  “Girl,” he bellowed.

  She stilled and turned slowly.

  “Come back.”

  Of course, there was a high chance she’d flee having seen his face. Most people did. That’s why he remained in the house. It was much easier than walking around and scaring people. He ran a hand over his beard and considered his finery that had seen better days. While the girl might be soaked and battered, he looked no better.

  The strangest thing happened when she began to make her way back to the house. For one, that was odd in itself. Having seen his face, should she not be dashing away? But the second strange thing was the smile that broke across her face. It remained until she came to the step in front of him. She paused, lifted her gaze to his and the smile dropped. He waited for that flash of fear in her dark eyes.

  It never came. He scowled.

  “You are the Duke of Broadmoor, are you not?”

  He nodded.

  “Excellent. I have a proposition for you.”

  He nodded again, words apparently impossible. Instead, he stepped back and let the woman in. Her muslin gown must have been white before she left home today but it was now streaked with brown and green stains. The straw bonnet that was trimmed with blue ribbon sagged over her face. The hem of her skirt had taken quite the battering in the garden and was ripped in several places. When he dropped his gaze to her ankle that just peeked out underneath the fabric, he noted Timms was right. There was a red streak in her white, torn stockings.

  Timms closed the door behind them and the thud echoed throughout the empty hall. Wilde tried not to recall the dusty chandelier above them or how the frames on some of the paintings were crumbling. The chair to one side of the door was threadbare. Would their guest note all this? Would she pity him, perhaps? Here was this grand duke living in squalor with only one eye and three servants to keep him company. Hardly anything to envy.

  “Your Grace, may I—”

  He held up a hand. “My housekeeper tells me you should be taken care of.” He motioned to Mrs. Potter who scurried forward. “Mrs. Potter will you take Miss…”

  “Isabel Beaumonte,” the young woman offered.

  “Will you take Miss Beaumonte upstairs and see what can be done for her.” He did not quite know how to say he had been staring at her ankles so he would leave that delicate matter to the housekeeper who had far more tact than he did.

  “Well, that’s very kind, Your Grace, but—”

  “I shall be in the library.” He swiveled before she could continue and stalked to the library door. He swung it shut but not before glimpsing Miss Beaumonte through the crack. There she stood, all frail and damp, and far too pretty, staring at him with complete innocence.

  It was going to be hellish having her here. He would have to ensure Mrs. Potter sent her on her way with haste.

  Wilde paced over to the drinks globe he kept in the library, flipped it open and helped himself to a decanter of brandy and a glass. He placed it onto the table at the side of his favorite chair and poured a generous helping. Sitting, he took his drink, flipped open the book he’d been in the middle of reading and let out a long breath.

  The woman—Miss Beaumonte—she would be upstairs by now. Mrs. Potter would have her taken care of. As far as he was concerned, he need do nothing.

  Wilde peered at the writing but the words had jumbled. And it was nothing to do with his damaged eye for a change. He huffed, threw back the brandy and set the glass aside. The fire in the hearth crackled and the rain pattered gently on the three windows that lined the library. Apart from that, there was little to be heard and that was how he liked it.

  So how was it a strange awareness of that woman under his roof prickled along his skin and made the hair on his arms stand on end?

  “She’s two floors away, for Christ’s sakes,” he told himself.

  Attention back on the book, he scowled at the pages and narrowed his gaze as he took each word one at a time.

  “Damn.” He snapped the book shut and stood.

  How long was he to tolerate her here? Would Mrs. Potter be able to tend to her and send her on her way? He stared out of the window at the grey skies then glanced at the clock. He shook his head. If she was even from the nearest village, it would take her too long to return home. As much as he was loath to have her under his roof, he could not send a woman out alone on a dark, wet night. Not again.

  Never, ever again.

  Wilde glanced at the golden lettering imprinted on the front of the book. Perhaps he was not in the mood for a mystery story. Maybe he needed something else. A tale of morality perhaps, to put him in his place? He strode over to the shelves on the right and took his time perusing the titles. He knew almost every title in the library. Ever since he was a boy, it had been his favorite place in the house. His father and grandfather and grandfather before that had worked hard to create an excellent collection. When he ran his fingers over the spines, he could feel the history there, the determination to create a wealth of knowledge.

  He touched a book. Today he could feel nothing. Damn that woman, she had even ruined his favorite place in the world.

  What was she doing here anyway? Had she not heard of him—the so-called Beast of Blackmoor. Any sensible young woman would steer well clear of him. But, then, she could not be a sensible woman. Yes, on their initial encounter there had been fear but she had returned without apprehension and he had not seen revulsion or horror in her eyes when she entered his home and saw him properly.

  Why was that? Was she so foolhardy not to realize what he was? Was she simply that innocent and naïve?

  Because he knew what he was. He was a killer. A selfish, arrogant man who had driven a woman to death. He was no better than a beast and deserved that name wholeheartedly.

  He swiveled on his heel with a grunt. No books appealed to him today. Once she was gone, all would be back to normal, though. He strode back to his chair, poured another brandy and sat. Cradling it in one hand, he stared at the dancing flames of the fire. Once that damned woman was gone, all would be well. Then he would stop thinking of her wide, beguiling eyes. That stubborn, pointed chin. Those flushed cheeks and that damp skin.

  All would be back to normal soon enough.

  Chapter Three

  “Please,” Isabel begged, “you need not fuss over me. I am perfectly well.”

  The rounded woman shook her head and tutted. Folding her arms under sizeable breasts, Mrs. Potter shook her head. “Well? Not to my eyes you are not. And as old as I might be, my eyes are perfectly fine. You, my love, are in danger of catching a cold, and if you do not catch a cold, you could get the flu. And if you do not get the flu, it will be pn—”

  “It will not come to that.” Isabel held up her hands from her position on the bed. A position she had practically been forced into by the housekeeper. As round-faced as she was in body, a shock of white curls circled her head, tucked into a cap that matched her apron. She had the sort of rosy-cheeked friendliness that one hoped to find in all housekeepers.

  “What of you
r leg?”

  Isabel glanced down at the red, torn stocking on her left leg. “I could do with some tending to there, I must admit.”

  The woman smiled. “Will you let me tend to you, my love? I dare say you came a cropper in the gardens and I could not live with myself if it became infected.”

  “That would be kind of you.”

  “Excellent.” The woman seemed buoyed by her need for help. “I shall return promptly with some warm water and cloths. We might need a touch of strong alcohol to clean it.”

  Isabel winced at the thought but Mrs. Potter paid her no attention as she continued.

  “Some warm soup too. A nice cup of tea.” She ticked the things off on her fingers. “Oh yes, I have a slice of pie left over from last night. Apples and cinnamon, they shall do some good. Now what else? A brandy perhaps to ward off the chill?”

  “Mrs. Potter,” Isabel protested.

  “Yes, brandy will help,” she persisted. “Some extra blankets. And I shall get Lighthall to light the fire. This room is far too cold. Of course, you need a change of clothes.” Mrs. Potter stopped to eye her. “You are a little smaller than her but I think I can find something.”

  “Than who?”

  Mrs. Potter blinked at her. “Oh, never mind that, my love. Get yourself comfortable and I shall be back momentarily.

  Isabel waited until the woman had left before placing her bonnet on a tired wooden chair. The red velvet padding was frayed and discolored. Much like the rest of the room. It was dust free but the canopy that was strung from the wall above the bed had turned a strange peachy color and smelled slightly damp. The bedding was in a similar condition. An old mirror, mottled with age, stood in one corner and the fireplace was bare, as though it had not been lit for years and years.

  There were a few pictures on the wall. A generic landscape, boats in port, a castle…nothing at all personal so this must have been a guest room at one point. She could hardly imagine a time when guests stayed here. Everything about the manor house spoke of disuse and neglect.

  It wasn’t surprising really considering it appeared the duke only had two servants. A housekeeper and a butler could hardly maintain such a place alone.

  She slumped onto the bed and slipped off her mud-caked boots. Her leg throbbed but she kept forgetting about it in this place. It was hard not to. Once this must have been such a grand home. What was it that caused this man to shut the doors and send away the servants? The villagers said he was a killer. That he had been responsible for the death of his wife. The details were always hazy. The stories swung from him having killed her and served her as supper for his guests in a meat pie to him throwing her off one of the towers. She suspected all those stories were embellished just as the tales of him being a beast were.

  Isabel peeled down her stocking and winced at the sight of raw, scraped flesh. She had done more damage than she had realized. It was a good thing the duke had not sent her away. She wouldn’t have been able to hobble far.

  He’d wanted to send her away, though. She would have to thank whoever had changed his mind. And quiz them about him. Perhaps Mrs. Potter would be willing to tell all. Was he really a killer? Was that why he had hidden himself away?

  Certainly, he was big and broad shouldered. He was hairy too—unfashionably so with a large, unkempt beard that was tinged with grey on the edges. His deep brown hair was shaggy around his shoulders. The eye had been the most startling thing. It was completely white. But once she had overcome her surprise at the sight of him, any idea of him being a beast fled. He was merely a disheveled recluse who had the bad fortune of being blind in one eye.

  Lifting her leg to inspect the scratch, she puffed out a breath. Nightfall was only a while away and she did not think her leg would carry her home quickly enough. She would have to stay the night at least. But that would give her an opportunity to ask about the books and even see the library. Her heart warmed at the mere thought, banishing the chill residing in her.

  Yes. She would use this opportunity to get the duke’s help in building her subscription library. After all, with a library like his, he must understand the importance of books. All she would ask is for a few donations. Maybe he could be their sponsor. Oh how wonderful it would be to bring the joy of reading to the villagers. None understood her preoccupation with books but then none of them had really had the chance to read all the wonderful stories out there.

  Soon they would, though.

  The click of the door opening jolted her from her thoughts. She straightened her skirts and put her hands in her lap. Mrs. Potter bustled in. Over one arm, she had a blanket. Over the other a gown. Balanced precariously on one hand was a tray laden with soup, pie, tea and brandy. In the other hand, she held a bowl of steaming water.

  “Steady…” Mrs. Potter wobbled precariously in and kicked the door shut with a foot. “There we go…”

  She seemed to be counselling herself through carrying the almighty load.

  “Just a little bit…over there…yes…” She carried the bowl to the wash stand, ignoring Isabel’s offered hands to take something. Then she set down the tray and handed over the blankets and gown.

  Isabel fingered the delicate golden silk. “This is beautiful. Who should I thank for such a garment?”

  “No one to thank now, my love. Belonged to the master’s wife and she’s been dead twelve years.”

  “So his wife did die?”

  “Aye, she died. Grave times.” The brief look of sorrow on Mrs. Potter’s face vanished and her eyes brightened. “Now let us see to the leg while you sip away on this brandy.” She shoved the glass into Isabel’s hand.

  Isabel took a sniff of the liquid and grimaced. She was sometimes allowed a little port at home to keep her father company when he drank but this smelled stronger than anything she was used to.

  “Drink up!” the housekeeper ordered.

  Shrugging to herself, she took a sip. The sweet warmth touched with the bitterness of alcohol was not as unpleasant as she thought it would be. She took another sip while Mrs. Potter kneeled to inspect her leg.

  “Can I hitch up your skirts, my love? I can’t see a thing.”

  “I can clean it myself,” Isabel offered. Her father kept two maids and a housekeeper but she was hardly used to being waited upon.

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Potter puffed out her chest. “Five years as a nursemaid means I’m quite capable of taking care of cuts and scrapes. I have far more experience than you, I’d wager.”

  “Oh I never meant—”

  The woman smiled. “Of course you didn’t, sweeting. But just let old Mrs. Potter see to it. It’s what I’m best at, you know. Looking after people.”

  “Do you only have the one person to look after? The duke I mean?”

  The housekeeper nodded while she readied the water, a decanter of clear alcohol, and some linen strips. “Indeed. Hardly tests my skills now does it? After all, there is only so much one can do for a grown man.”

  “And he never has visitors?”

  “Never. You’re our first in many years.”

  “I see.”

  “Be brave now, this will sting.” Mrs. Potter said it so quickly that Isabel had no time to prepare for the pain as the housekeeper cleaned her wound.

  She hissed out a breath and closed her eyes until it was over.

  Mrs. Potter tapped her knee. “Well done. Now just to bind it. We shall have to keep an eye on it, however. I think it’s deep enough to be prone to infection. However did you do it?”

  “I tripped over some stone out in the garden. I take it His Grace does not have a gardener anymore?”

  “No, not since the duchess died. I’ve tried to persuade him to take someone on but he has no interest in it. He doesn’t even go out there anymore. Shame really, as he did so love the garden.”

  “He must have grieved deeply.”

  Mrs. Potter tucked in the end of the bindings and stood. “Still does really. Although men are so very good at sulking, don’t you t
hink?”

  Isabel laughed. “They are indeed.”

  “Maybe you shall be just the medicine he needs. Snap him out of his sulk.”

  “Me?” She put a hand to her chest. “I’m not sure I can do anything. I hardly know him.”

  “Well, there’s time,” Mrs. Potter declared. “Now drink your soup, eat your pie, drink your tea, clean up, and change into that dress. If you are still hungry later, supper will be served at seven o’clock. You’ll probably hear the dinner gong.”

  Isabel laughed again. The woman’s energy was infectious. “Is there anything else you would like me to do?”

  “Yes,” she said, her expression suddenly serious, “fall in love with His Grace. I’m sure it would do wonders for him.”

  Chapter Four

  “I am quite content to eat in the library.”

  Timms stared up at Wilde. If he was trying to intimidate him, it would never work. The small, rounded butler had no sway over him. No. None at all.

  “No, Timms,” Wilde insisted.

  The butler continued to stare, one thin eyebrow slowly lifting.

  “Why should I have to dine with this guest? I did not invite her here. She is an intruder.” He huffed while the butler eyed him resolutely. “I always eat in the library. Why should I have to change that because of some unwanted woman?” He released an exasperated sound when Timms remained, utterly unflinching in his position. “Fine, I’ll dine with her. Are you happy now?”

  A faint smile curved the butler’s lips. “Very happy, Your Grace. Though, might I suggest you take a moment to change for dinner and uh, groom a little.”

  Wilde could feel the furious heat growing inside him. First this woman had trespassed in his garden, now he was expected to give her a bed for the night and feed her, and his bloody butler wanted him to change and shave. Was he not the duke here? Was he not the one in charge?

  “Do you want me to eat with her or not?” he snapped. “I am not changing and I am not grooming. If Miss Beaumonte does not like that, then tough.”